


Sing welcome, then, to the drifting snow

by swilmarillion



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:00:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21935599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swilmarillion/pseuds/swilmarillion
Summary: The first snowfall in Utumno is something to behold
Relationships: Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor/Sauron | Mairon
Comments: 6
Kudos: 69
Collections: Tolkien Secret Santa 2019





	Sing welcome, then, to the drifting snow

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from Snow, by Eliza Cook. Happy holidays @lesbianmelkor!

It was dark in the study—or, rather, it was dark everywhere around the desk where Mairon worked. He’d been sitting there all day, possibly longer, the pile of work around him growing steadily. Melkor watched him, silent and still, standing in the open doorway. There were many things that amazed him about his lieutenant—the way he could sit for so long, mind attuned to the same task with seemingly unwavering concentration; the way he wrote in perfectly straight lines, never smudging his ink or blotting letters on the page; the way he inevitably managed to create more work for himself while finishing normal tasks.

Melkor wasn’t even sure what Mairon was working on this time. He had asked and had gotten a rather vague answer the night before. He had known better than to ask again. He had heard the preoccupation in Mairon’s voice and seen the furrow in his brow, the gentle pursing of his lips as he tapped his quill against the page. Melkor knew when not to interrupt.

On the other hand, he also knew when Mairon needed a break.

“Come with me,” he said. “There’s something I want to show you.”

If Mairon was surprised to hear his voice, he didn’t show it. His hand never wavered from its neat, steady writing, continuing across until he finished what he had started. Then he laid down his quill and sat back, straightening out his neck. Melkor winced at the accusatory popping that spoke to the hours Mairon had spent craned over the desk, thinking and planning and making notes. 

“What is it?” Mairon asked, turning in his seat to look at Melkor.

“Something I want you to see.”

With anyone else, Mairon would have argued. Melkor could see the instinctual flicker of it across his lieutenant’s face. But he also saw the curiosity that replaced it, and he smiled, knowing Mairon couldn’t resist finding out what it was Melkor wanted him to see. For all his subtlety and nuance, Mairon never could resist learning something new—even something as inane as what, exactly, the lord of Utumno thought he should see.

Melkor waited until Mairon stood and crossed the darkened chamber. Then he turned and walked down the corridor, unable to hide a grin as Mairon trotted to catch him up. “I’ve been sitting for hours,” Mairon complained, frowning up at him. “Don’t make me run.”

“No one made you sit for that long,” Melkor said, refusing to slow his pace.

“Pardon me for working,” Mairon said dryly.

“This time, I suppose,” Melkor said, and Mairon rolled his eyes. There was something deeply satisfying in the act of irritating his lieutenant. Mairon was professional to a fault, calm and precise and exacting. It was what made him a good lieutenant. It was also what made his laughter, his snark, and his feigned irritation so incredibly gratifying. That Melkor was one of the few who could cajole those things out of Mairon made it all the better.

“Where are we going?” Mairon asked. The two of them swept through the halls, sending underlings scurrying out of their way at every turn.

“Outside,” Melkor said. Mairon made a noise of disgust that made Melkor laugh. “It’ll do you good,” Melkor said, turning to grin at him and relishing Mairon’s scowl. “When’s the last time you saw the sun?”

“Recently,” Mairon hazarded, his brow furrowing as he thought. “Yesterday, maybe? Or the day before.”

“Lies,” Melkor said. “Outright lies. You’ve been in your study practically nonstop for a week.”

“As I just said,” Mairon began, a note of exasperation in his voice, “I—”

“Yes, yes,” Melkor said, waving a hand dismissively. “You’re working. You’re the very definition of dedication. You’re the engine that keeps this whole place running. I know. But you’re also prone to overdoing things.”

“Am not,” Mairon said.

“And as your sovereign lord and supreme leader,” Melkor said, graciously ignoring the snort that answered his declaration, “I say you need a break.”

“I don’t think I enjoy the kinds of breaks that involve going outside,” Mairon said, though Melkor could tell his interest was piqued. 

“I think you might enjoy this one,” Melkor said. 

They had reached a small door that Mairon knew the servants used for going out into the herb gardens. Melkor opened it and stood aside, holding the door, letting Mairon look out. Mairon stood in the doorway, transfixed by the sight before him.

The grounds of the fortress were, at the best of times, a bleak and uninviting place—an arid, rocky expanse of dust and dun and desolation. Now, though, they were unrecognizable. 

Mairon stepped outside the doorway and into a blinding expanse of white, unsullied snow. It blanketed everything around him, covering the ground as far as he could see. The air was still and quiet, and snowflakes fell gently from the sky, drifting in lazy, dizzying spirals. He stretched out his hand and let the snowflakes fall into his palm, marveling at how quickly they melted against his skin. 

It was not that he had never seen snow—it covered the peaks of the Pelóri, after all—but he had never seen it like this, up close, falling before his eyes. He had never felt the cold of it on his skin or heard the crunch of it underfoot. He walked out into the garden, palms upraised, face upturned, tracing the paths of the snowflakes with his eyes.

Melkor watched him, a feeling of awe and satisfaction settling warm in his chest. For all his hardness and grit, his unyielding spirit and sharp edges, Mairon was a creature of such beautiful, unbridled wonder. There was something awesome in the way he looked at new things, some quality of pure, unassuming joy that Melkor had never seen in anyone else. It was this, beyond the power and steel and the moral flexibility that attracted Melkor to all the subjects he had chosen, that quality of wonder and delight at discovering something new, that had drawn Melkor to him. He had seen it in the way Mairon handled new metals and newly unearthed gems, in the way his fingers traced the lines of new tools and rough-cast molds. He saw it now in the way Mairon held out his hands and turned his face to the sky, blinking snowflakes from his eyelashes, and it made him ache in a way he didn’t quite want to acknowledge. 

Then Mairon turned, and his smile was radiant, and Melkor was utterly lost in the raw delight on Mairon’s face, in the snow that clung to his fiery hair, in the flush of cold and pleasure on his cheeks. He grinned, holding out his hands as though to encompass the whole world. “Well?” he said.

“It’s beautiful,” Mairon said, a reverence in his voice that Melkor longed to hear again.

Instead, he said, “I told you it would be worth your while.” He adopted his smuggest, most insufferable grin, feeling a laugh bubble up in his chest at the scowl his words drew from Mairon.

“No, you didn’t,” Mairon said.

“But it was,” Melkor said. “Wasn’t it?”

Mairon’s face softened, and he smiled in a way that Melkor knew was the closest he’d get to acquiescence. “It’s beautiful,” he said again.

“It is,” Melkor said. “And you know what else it is?” He bent down slowly, keeping an eye on Mairon.

Mairon was gone before Melkor could reach the ground, instinct telling him to move before he had realized what was happening. And that was another thing Melkor loved about him, grinning wildly at the indignant shrieks that echoed across the plain as Mairon ran and dodged and Melkor chased him, pelting snowballs in his wake. 

He’d realize later how often he’d come to associate words like ‘love’ with Mairon. He’d realize even later what it meant. For now,


End file.
